Murder One
by Nora Lou
Summary: What if the Reagans became suspects in a murder case? What if they had no solid alibis? Chapter Two is now up!
1. Chapter 1

Murder One

By

Nora Lou Wilson

And

Rebecca S. Smithey

Note: This story is a follow-up to the episode "Parenthood" …What if the Reagans became suspects in a murder case? What if they had no solid alibis?

Frank Reagan carefully moved through his house, balancing a platter of sandwiches, a bowl and a large bag of chips.

"Pop, grab the napkins, willya?"

"I've got 'em here, Francis…and the paper plates…and the pickles…and the beer…" He smiled. "It's been a long time since we've done this…Saturday night poker…when will the boys get here?"

"Jamie should be here any minute, and since I told Danny to be here fifteen minutes earlier than that, he shouldn't be too far behind."

Henry scoffed. "That kid. I could never understand how he could consistently be fifteen minutes late."

There were sounds of the back door opening and then Jamie's voice drifted into the dining room. "Quit bustin' my chops, Danny."

"Don't worry, kid, I'll take it out on you in the card game tonight. Hey! Who's ready for some poker? He looked around. "How come we're not playin' in the kitchen?"

Jamie smiled at him. "So you'll have to walk further to get me a beer."

Frank watched his two sons come in. Jamie went immediately to the coat tree in the hall and hung up his jacket. Danny threw his on the kitchen table as he moved through the room. _And __that_ _pretty much sums up my sons…Danny: loud, brash, messy and late, but one of the best husbands, fathers and detectives I've ever known…Jamie: quiet, calm, neat, considerate and one of the best police officers I've ever known. He'll also make one of the best husbands and definitely the best father of all of us…Sydney was smart. I'm just glad she left when she did instead of marrying him and then deciding she couldn't take it._ _The family didn't need to go through another divorce…Erin had been through enough…_

Frank's thoughts naturally drifted to Nikki's big event that very night, and how badly her father had been treating her and her mother lately. _He had better show her the time of her life tonight…_Frank's thoughts were interrupted when his cell phone rang.

He fished it out of the pocket of his jeans. "Reagan."

Erin's voice was hushed but filled with anguish. "Dad? I am going to _**KILL**_ him!"

"What's John done now?"

"I just called him to make sure he would be here soon. Nikki was getting anxious since he was supposed to pick her up half an hour ago. He was at a party; I could hear the noise in the background. But the …_asshole…"_she hissed the word, "_**lied**_ and said he had to work. He told me to tell her 'next time for sure…' What am I going to do? I cannot break her heart like that, Dad, I just can't!"

"What time does the Father – Daughter Banquet start?"

"In forty – five minutes!

"I'll be there in fifteen."

"Dad?"

"I'll take her…Just let me get into my tux."

"Oh, Daddy…Thank you…I didn't…I couldn't…"

"I know, Sweetheart. I'll be there shortly. Don't tell her."

"I can't let you do this, Dad."

"Yes, you can and you will."

Frank hung up and turned to his father and sons who were unashamedly listening to his end of the conversation.

"What has that asshole done now?" Danny asked.

"John blew off the annual Father – Daughter Banquet at Nikki's school. He didn't even have the decency to tell Nikki himself, but dropped it into Erin's lap…I'm going to take his place, so I've gotta go get ready…sorry about the card game…"

"I'll call your detail; they can get you through traffic."

"Thanks, Pop."

"What can we do to help?" Jamie's face was a mask of concern.

"We can go find that asshole and beat the shit outta him!" was Danny's reply.

"That doesn't help, Danny," Pop said. "Although it does sound like he deserves it. We should at least have a little talk with him."

The voices of his father and sons followed Frank upstairs. He quickly got into his tuxedo, his best cuff links and patent leather shoes. While he dressed, his mind raced with thoughts of what he would like to do to John Boyle. That little piece of…garbage…had hurt his girls for the last time! _My promise to God!_

Frank was back down the stairs and out the door in record time, but still his detail was waiting for him at the curb, the engine of the glistening black SUV idling. He had long suspected that they camped out somewhere in the neighborhood, just hovering over him. This pretty much confirmed it. They raced through the night, lights and sirens going, and Frank was knocking on his daughter's door twenty minutes after her phone call.

"Where's my date?" He beamed as if he were not one of the angriest fathers on the planet right now. He looked around the room for Nikki. She stood in the arched doorway leading into the hall dressed in a shiny blue and silver dress that made her look way too grown up for Frank's taste. "Excuse me. I must have the wrong apartment. I was looking for my little granddaughter. Have you seen her, Miss?"

"Grandpa? What are you doing here?"

"Well, I heard that the Father – Daughter Banquet was tonight, and since I haven't gotten to go to one of those since your Mom graduated, I called and had your Dad locked up so I could take his place."

"Is Dad really locked up?"

"No, I just called him and talked him into letting me take you." At Nikki's look of doubt, Frank added, "It did take a bit of persuasion, but after a few threats he finally agreed. So, I get to be your lucky date."

Frank watched Nikki digest this…saw her realize what was really going on and then accept the cover-up he had come up with. With eyes even shinier than her dress, Nikki smiled up at her grandfather. _She's gonna be the best cop this family ever produces…_

"No, Grandpa," she said as she hugged him. "I'm the lucky one. I'll be with the handsomest man there!"

_Dear god, I love this girl! _Frank looked at Erin, who was bravely hiding her tears. _John Boyle is a dead man!_

"Nikki?" Erin held out a plastic box of flowers. "Your dad sent this earlier. He said he at least got to buy the corsage."

Nikki looked at her mother, and for an instant Frank thought the charade was going to crumble, but his girls were made of sterner stuff. At the very same time, Nikki and Erin raised their chins and smiled at each other, accepting the lies that made this night bearable.

After his son left the house, Henry Reagan took a seat at the dining room table across from his grandsons. Danny was red-faced and fidgety, ready to explode, but the anger he saw beginning to boil behind Jamie's eyes was disconcerting. Jamie was usually so calm and level-headed, but once he got angry…

Henry could see the betrayal in Jamie's eyes too. When John Boyle had appeared in all their lives, Jamie had been a wide-eyed kid, and John had been one of his "pals". John had been another older brother, but one that didn't look down on him, play tricks on him or "bust his chops". John had been charming, and Jamie had fallen for the façade. Later, when John had revealed his true colors, Jamie had been left with a sense of betrayal that he had never quite been able to shake off.

"So," Danny said. "We gonna go after the son-of-a-bitch or not?"

Jamie got to his feet at once. "Yeah, let's go!"

Henry rose to stop them. "Boys, as much as you would like to, you can't just drive around the city all night, trolling for John."

"You got a better idea?" Danny snapped.

"You're both gonna sit back down and let me clean your wallets out!" Henry motioned for them to sit. "We'll think of something while we play. Five Card Stud, Reagan style…" he began to deal the cards.

Henry, Danny and Jamie played a few hands of poker, but their hearts weren't really in it. Danny left first, after losing three hands in a row to Jamie's poorly executed bluffing. He had been unable to concentrate on his cards because the anger he'd felt about Boyle's latest stunt refused to go away.

He drove aimlessly through the streets of the city, wanting nothing more than to find the son-of-a-bitch and beat the living crap outta him. He couldn't say that he was actively "trolling" for any sign of his brother-in-law…not exactly…but he did not want to go home and dump his foul mood on Linda and the boys.

Jamie helped Pop clean up the mess they had made, then he left too. His anger was no less than Danny's but his was coupled with the pain of knowing how badly he'd misjudged John. He drove back across the Brooklyn Bridge and parked the newly repaired Chevelle on a side street near his apartment in Soho.

He made his way up to his very lonely apartment. With Sydney out of his life, he could barely afford the rent, and he was counting the weeks until the lease ran out. He turned the television on and watched a western based on a Louis L'Amour novel his father really liked. Half-way through the movie, he fell asleep on his couch.

Henry Reagan moved through the house, turning off the lights and closing the curtains. He left a kitchen light on for Francis and another small lamp lit in the living room.

He fought the urge to pull his old station wagon out of the garage and go find the weasel calling himself John Boyle. He'd never liked the man, but Erin had loved him whole-heartedly. John had seemed crazy about her – at first.

But Henry had been the first person in the family to catch a glimpse of John Boyle's other side. He had been to a meeting in the city on a Friday night. John and Erin had been married for only a few months, and as he stood on Broadway hailing a cab back to Brooklyn, Henry had seen John. He was leaving a bar a block away, his arm draped around the waist of a girl who looked no older than a senior in high school.

Henry had kept it to himself until John and Erin had arrived for Sunday dinner. At his first opportunity, Henry had taken John out to the back porch for a little one-on-one talk. At first, John had tried to deny that he had been where Henry had seen him, but it hadn't taken him long to crumple. He promised never to cheat on Erin again, but Henry never trusted the boy from then on. Now, years later, Henry wished he had used that one opportunity on the back porch to beat the crap out of the little punk.

On his way home, Frank Reagan had to admit that he had actually had a good time with Nikki at the Father-Daughter Banquet. The meal had been excellent – much better than he remembered from Erin's days at the same school. And to show her a good time, Frank had spent a good part of the evening dancing with her and her friends. He had pulled out every step he had learned in a ballroom dancing class he had taken with Mary years ago. After the banquet, he had taken Nikki out for dessert at Junior's. When he had walked her to her door, she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "I had a great time, Grandpa!" she gushed, before running inside. The hurt look in her eyes from earlier in the evening was gone, and the smile he got from Erin at the door was destined to be one of the highlights of his life.

The detail dropped him at home and after changing into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he wandered around the darkened house for awhile. Pop was asleep, his deep snores filling his bedroom. He was glad he had been able to rescue the event for Nikki, but it rankled that he'd had to do it in the first place. Nikki was a beautiful, talented girl who was bound to set the world on fire someday_. John is missing all of it…deliberately…_That was unforgiveable.

Finally, his anger getting the best of him, Frank pocketed his house keys, strapped his weapon into an ankle holster on his leg and took off through the neighborhood on a run. He set himself a hard pace, trying to drive the anger out of his body by sheer exertion. He ran a route through Prospect Park, then turned and took a breather before heading back toward Rugby Road and home. Suddenly, he realized that he was standing outside the home John Boyle had inherited from his parents when they had been killed in a plane crash while John was still in high school. John and Erin had lived there for a while but then he had taken an apartment in mid-town after the divorce. John still owned the house, but rented it out from time to time.

Mary had always said that John yearned to have the kind of family life the Reagans had, and because of that they had tried to overlook many of John's failings. _But not anymore…_

John Boyle stepped out of a nightclub in Soho and draped one arm casually around the shoulders of a willowy blonde he'd met inside. _This is shaping up to be a great night_ he thought. _A helluva lot better than playing Daddy Dearest at that stuck-up school with my drama queen daughter._

He guided the girl toward the corner, intent on hailing a cab to his place. A shadow detached itself from the wall to his left and solidified into the figure of a man. John started to reach inside his coat for his cell to call the cops, sure that he and the girl – _what was her name again? – _were about to be mugged.

When the man came closer and passed beneath the glow of the streetlight, John took his hand out of his pocket and glared at the now familiar face. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"John – we need to have a little talk. It's about my niece…Our family is not happy with you."

John Boyle felt something strike him at the base of his skull. A blinding flash of light exploded behind his eyes and he fell to his knees. A booted foot kicked him in the chest, and he cried out in pain as he felt ribs shatter. He tasted the blood in his mouth, felt the throbbing in his head and gasped for air.

There was a pause, only long enough for John to wonder if that dumb blonde he was with was able to dial 911, and then he was hauled to his feet. One fist held tight to his shirt, keeping him erect, and the other fist began to beat him until blackness rushed in.

After receiving Communion, Frank Reagan turned away from the altar and started back down the aisle to rejoin his family. As he looked up, he saw J.T Hogan standing just inside the doors of St. Luke's, his expression dour. Hogan was the chief of his security detail, and his sudden appearance here would not mean anything good.

Frank stopped in the aisle just long enough to tap his father on the shoulder and whisper "be right back, Pop," then he made his way to stand next to Hogan. "I'm really sorry to disturb you here, Boss," he whispered, "but we've got a bad situation."

Frank took a deep breath and motioned to the doors. "Let's step outside," he said.

The two men stepped out into the bright sunshine. Hogan glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "A body was found about 2 a.m. in an alleyway behind a club in SoHo. He'd been beaten to death. Facial recognition was impossible due to trauma, but he still had his wallet and credit cards on him."

"So robbery wasn't the motive…" Frank said, but he was wondering why Hogan had brought this to him, and he waited for the other shoe to drop. "What are you not telling me yet?"

"The driver's license in his wallet identified him as your former son-in-law, John Boyle."

"Has this been confirmed?" Frank's voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. He looked back at the closed doors of the church where his daughter and granddaughter were sitting. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

"His fingerprints were already in the system because of the bar association rules." Hogan was nodding his head. "I'm sorry, Boss. It's a match."

Frank nodded, wondering how he was going to break this kind of news to the family. Another thought was nagging at him as well. If the investigating officer were to ask if anyone had motive to hate John Boyle enough to wish him dead, then the Reagan family would all be suspects.

Dinner was a somber affair. Frank had waited until everyone got to the house before he told all of them about John's death. Erin had been stoic, but Nikki fell apart and hid in an upstairs bedroom. Erin took Nikki a cup of tea and sat with her until she cried herself into a fitful sleep. Frank knew she was crying mostly for the lost opportunities her father's death represented for her.

No one ate much, or felt like talking. Danny finally broke the silence only after Jack and Sean had escaped into the den to play video games. "Last night, I wanted to kill him myself," he said. "But I can't believe someone really did it!"

Frank nodded. "Any investigator worth his shield is going to take a hard look at all of us," he replied. "We had history with him. But I know this family. I know no one in this family could commit murder." He looked around the table. "I just hope we can prove it."

Later that night, Frank Reagan stood in an examination room at the Medical Examiner's office. John's body lay on a metal table in front of him, covered by a white sheet. Only his face – or what was left of it – was visible. Whoever had done this had beaten John's face until it was a bloody mass. It had been a vicious, personal beating.

He sighed; twenty-four hours ago he had considered beating the man himself. He looked across the table at the medical examiner who had performed the preliminary examination of the body.

Dr. Kaufman was one of the best members of the M.E.'s office, a woman who had chosen forensics over any number of specialities when she graduated from medical school. She had spent a decade working at the Body Farm in Tennesse, then moved to New York when she married a Columbia Law School professor. Frank had seen the two of them recently at a party in Gracie Mansion, where she had kept the party going with her wit and personality. But now, she was all business, going over her preliminary report with clinical efficiency.

He wasn't the only one listening. At the end of the table, a homicide detective from the 6th precinct was taking notes. His name was Ken Wells, and he had an impeccable file.

"I won't be absolutely certain until I finish the autopsy, but I do have some preliminary findings," Dr. Kaufman was saying. "Time of death is somewhere between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. his assailant was right-handed, and over six feet tall."

Wells looked up. "How do you know that?"

"From the direction and depth of the wounds…he might have been on his knees at some point during the attack, as evidenced by some bruising on his legs. But for the most part, the killer was standing over Mr. Boyle while he beat him." She pointed to an area of depressions on Boyle's cheek. Even without a microscope, they could see a pattern of some object imprinted into the flesh and bone. "I thought at first that the imprint might have been from a set of brass knuckles, but now I am sure that it is from a heavy ring of some kind."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank could see the detective's eyes drift toward the NYPD ring Frank wore on his right hand. He reached over with his left hand, pulled the ring off and handed it to Dr. Kaufman. "Here…eliminate this as the ring in question."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, then took the ring and stepped over to a stainless steel sink. Detective Wells followed, and watched as she sprayed the ring with luminol. The substance would reveal the presence of any blood spatter. While the detective watched the process, Frank stood over the body of his former son-in-law, his mind reeling with memories…


	2. Chapter 2

**Murder One: Chapter Two**

By

Nora Lou Wilson

And

Rebecca S. Smithey

_A note to our readers: This chapter may seem like a cross-over because…well, it __is__…but, the main players are still the Reagans. Please read and review!_

Very early Monday morning Erin was awakened from a short night's sleep by a telephone call.

"Hello," she muttered, her mind still fogged from sleep…_or lack of…_

"Mrs. Boyle?"

"It's Reagan now, but if this is a reporter…"

"No, Ma'am. My name is Arnold Cohen and I was your ex-husband's personal attorney. This is concerning his will and his estate."

"That should not really concern me…We were divorced almost two years ago."

"I am aware of that, but Mr. Boyle never got around to changing his will."

"Oh, my G…" Erin covered her eyes with a hand.

"I know this comes as a shock, but Mr. Boyle never took the time involved to change the stipulations of his will. As a result, you were named the executor of his estate, and you are also the beneficiary of a sizable insurance policy he took out just after the two of you were married. He did make sure to keep up the premiums of that policy, so once the will is probated…" his voice trailed off.

Erin took a deep breath. "Mr. Cohen, I am honestly not sure what to do about anything at this point. Is there some way I can call you later today?" She grabbed a pad and pen from her bedside table and took down a phone number he gave her.

"I will be in touch with you about the reading of the will, but I wanted to touch base with you as soon as I heard about John's…death," Cohen said. "I am sorry for your loss," he added before ending the call.

Erin sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. _Executor…_that meant that she would be responsible for taking care of all of John's unpaid bills…tying up the loose ends of his life…

She got Nikki up and the two of them ate a hasty breakfast before Erin dropped Nikki at school. The last thing either of them wanted to do was go to school or work, but they also did not want to just sit in the apartment and think about what had happened. They hugged at the school's front gate, and Erin watched Nikki head inside, surrounded by a group of supportive girls. Before her daughter disappeared inside though, she turned back and waved at her mother. Erin waved back before she turned and headed toward her job…and the first thing on her agenda was an interview with a homicide detective. _What a crappy way to start my day…_

Inside Manhattan's 12th Precinct in Interrogation Room 1 Danny Reagan sat on the wrong side of the table. He didn't like it…in fact, he absolutely hated it. He looked over to the other side of the table at the IA Rep, Captain Ira Hoskins and the detective unlucky enough to wind up with the case. Danny knew that the 6th Precinct should have been handling the case, but the high profile murder and especially the "persons of interest" in this one was too hot for the 6th…they had pulled Wells off the case and kicked it up to the major crimes squad of the 12th.

"I don't envy you guys. When are you scheduled to talk to my dad?"

Detective Beckett looked up from her notes. "You don't need to worry about that. You need to worry about where you were when John Boyle was beaten to death and if you can prove it. Everyone knows how your family felt about the victim and it is common knowledge you can't control your temper."

"Yeah," her 'partner' the writer, Richard Castle, chimed in. "Didn't you shoot a cop in a mad fit not long ago?"

"I was cleared of that!" Danny was suddenly having trouble keeping his calm now, especially when he realized he was looking at the IA Rep as if for approval.

Hoskins nodded. "Detective Reagan was exonerated of that incident. Let's move on."

"Okay," Detective Beckett nodded. "We need to know where you were between 10 pm Saturday and 1 am Sunday, Reagan."

"I left my father's house a little after 10:00 on Saturday night and drove back into the City. I was…upset… so I drove around Manhattan and the boroughs until a little after midnight and then headed home."

"Was anyone with you, or did you see anyone during your drive that can confirm this?"

"No…well, my grandfather and brother can confirm what time I left Dad's house…after that I was alone," Danny continued when he saw Beckett's expression, "but I know I passed several traffic cameras and that big Real Time Crime Center camera on East Fordham in the Bronx before I headed home."

"We'll be checking on that."

"Knock yourself out."

"Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Boyle?"

"Other than your worst nightmare of anyone in my family? How about anyone who ever got to know the guy?"

"Can you think of anything that might actually help us here, Detective?"

"I'm sorry, but ever since that scumbag hurt my sister and niece I haven't even spoken to him. I really don't move in his circles. I work for the right side of the law…" He gestured at Beckett. "…just like you."

"Well," Beckett sighed, knowing that her day was not going to get any easier. "You know the drill, Reagan."

"As well as you do."

"Thanks for coming in."

"No problem, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again."

"Sure. Let's just hope it's at the next softball tournament."

"Yeah."

When Danny stepped out of the interrogation room with Detective Beckett and Richard Castle, he saw Pop sitting in a chair in the hallway, and he came over as Pop got to his feet.

"Goin' back to work, Pop…see you Sunday…".

Henry nodded at Danny, but his eyes were focused on Kate Beckett. "I knew you'd wanna talk to me, so I thought I'd just come on down and save you a trip out to Brooklyn."

Becket shook his hand. "Thank you for coming in, Mr. Commissioner," she said, addressing him by his former title.

Beckett hoped that the show of respect might get the man to trust her. Her instincts were telling her that Henry Reagan was probably not their suspect. But, if anyone else in the family had done it, he would know about it…or at least she hoped he would.

"My kid's the P.C. now, Detective, but thanks."

"Would you like to go into the break room, sir?"

"No, the interrogation room will be fine." They moved into the room that Danny had just left, and Henry took the seat that was usually reserved for suspects. He looked around the room. "You know, I was in this room once before," he said. "I came up to talk to a kid who was a witness in the Collinetti hit back in the sixties…way before your time, Detective…" Henry was lost in time now. "The kid was a great witness. He saw everything and had a helluva memory for details. He memorized the license plate number of the car Jimmy the Machine was driving, and he only got a glance at it. He gave an accurate description of Jimmy, too.."

"Why was he called Jimmy the Machine, Mr. Reagan?" Castle interrupted, a gleam beginning to grow in his eye.

"Because people were too scared to call him Jimmy the Bastard to his face…that's what he really was. Everyone knew he was the bastard son of a lieutenant in the Giacana crime family and a famous Broadway actress."

"Really? _**Who?**_" Castle's eyes widened in anticipation, and Beckett saw the whole interview dissolving into a gossip session.

"Sir?" Beckett started over. "We need to talk about John Boyle."

"Oh, sorry…My family can tell you that I like to reminisce a little too much." Henry Reagan managed to look sly and sheepish at the same time.

"I just have a few questions."

"Let me save you some time, Detective. My son brought me up to speed on the details of the case, at least as much as they would tell him. The M.E. says John was killed between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. and I was at home asleep at that point…well, I was reading a part of that time. But I was alone, and no one called, spoke or saw me during that time."

Beckett took notes, and Castle was watching the old man carefully.

"My fingerprints are on file, of course," Henry continued. "But I don't think my DNA has ever been taken. The M.E. said that the CSI wonks found blood not belonging to the victim at the scene…I bet it's from the perp's knuckles, but that's for you guys to figure out…In the meantime, take my DNA and you can eliminate me as a suspect. Like I said, save you some time…"

Henry Reagan sat back and looked Beckett in the eyes as he spoke.

Castle knew Beckett didn't like the former commissioner as a suspect, but his straight-faced demeanor and the fact that he did not even once call Beckett "little lady" had put him firmly on Beckett's good side – a place it was not always easy to get to. He decided that when this was all over, he was going to have to take this gentleman out for a round of drinks and a night of story-telling.

Two detectives from the 12th Precinct, Ryan and Esposito, had found Jamie Reagan downstairs in their own precinct's locker room.

"I thought somebody would come find me," he said as they flashed their badges and identified themselves. "I've already given my statement to the guys in I.A., but I guess you'll want to ask your own questions, huh?"

"You know how it is, Officer," Ryan said. Personally, he had real doubts about the Commissioner or his family being involved in this murder, but he still had to follow the trail.

Sitting in a now empty roll call room, Ryan and Esposito were quizzing Jamie Reagan about the events of Saturday night.

Jamie said "I left my Dad's house after we played cards for a while, then drove back to my apartment in Soho."

"Just curious…" Esposito said. "How does a patrol officer afford a place in that neighborhood?"

"Barely," Jamie muttered, and shook his head. "My former fiancé and I leased the place for three years before I became a cop. There's about four months left on the lease, then I'm out from under."

"Your apartment house has a doorman?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah – until after midnight." Jamie thought a moment. "There are also security cameras in the underground garage, the lobby, the front door, and in every hallway."

"What did you do after you got home?"

"Had a beer and fell asleep on the couch watching a movie on T.V."

"Do you remember the name of the movie?" Esposito asked.

"No…some western…my father is the big fan of westerns, not me." Ryan wondered if by mentioning his father the patrol officer was subtly reminding them of his status, but dismissed the idea. Jamie Reagan just struck him as a sort of stand-up kind of guy.

"Do you know anyone who might have had a beef with John Boyle?"

"You mean – besides me and everyone else in my family?"

"Yeah."

"No," Jamie replied. "But none of us had even seen or talked to John in months." Jamie looked from one to the other detective. "Look, I don't know what else I can tell you guys."

After a few more routine questions, Ryan and Esposito took Jamie's contact information and got up to leave. He told them he could always be found here – in the 12th or on duty on the streets of the city.

"We'll find you if we need to," Ryan said, as he and Javier headed out to check his alibi.

While his daughter was on the phone with John's attorney, Frank Reagan was already at work. An Internal Affairs Investigator by the name of Davis sat on the other side of the P.C.'s mahogany desk.

Frank did not envy the man's position. Only a few months ago, the Reagan family had taken down a bunch of dirty cops, including the senior I.A. investigator at the time. Now, Frank was supposed to be "under investigation" and the Internal Affairs Division had sent a …rookie…by the looks of him…to investigate him.

At least he got to be interviewed on his own "turf", but Danny, Jamie, Erin and Pop did not have that luxury. I.A. investigators and homicide detectives were talking to Danny and Jamie, while other detectives would be interviewing Erin at her office and Pop at home. He knew that no one in his family had murdered John, but proving it might be…difficult…

"Sir," the I.A. investigator said as he flipped open a brand-new notebook. "Can you tell me where you were last Saturday night between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1a.m.?"

"You mean – do I have an alibi for the murder?" Frank almost felt sorry for the guy, but not enough to keep from jerking him around just a tiny bit.

"Yes sir…"

"I took my granddaughter Nikki to a banquet at her school, then took her out for dessert afterwards…_Junior's_…the one on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn…we had the cheesecake…"

"Could anyone besides your granddaughter confirm your story?"

"My credit card receipt would be a good place to start, along with the half-dozen or so other customers who saw us…One of them was Captain Ahmad Patel…of the Emergency Services Unit…" Frank smiled across at the young man, who was feverishly taking notes. "He was there celebrating an anniversary, I think."

The young I.A. detective looked at Frank for a long moment, and it appeared to Frank like he was trying to decide if pursuing this line of questioning any further was worth his fledgling career. Davis snapped his notebook closed and stood. "I think I have all I need, Commissioner," he said as they shook hands. "We'll be in touch."

He swept past Detective Baker as she opened the door to announce that another detective, this one from homicide, was waiting to see him. Something told Frank this round of questions would not go so quickly.

"Come in, Detective Beckett," Frank told the female standing just at the edge of the doorway. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you, sir, no." She took a seat and opened a small notebook.

Frank studied Kate Beckett for the briefest of moments. She was one of the department's brightest stars. And with her closure rate like it was, she was also one of its most determined investigators.

"Commissioner, I want you to know – up front – that I have the utmost respect for you," Beckett said.

"I appreciate that, Detective," Frank replied. "But you did not come here to pat me on the back. Why don't we get down to it?"

Beckett nodded. "The Medical Examiner has narrowed the time of death for your son-in-law…"

"_**Former**_ son-in-law," Frank corrected.

"Former son-in-law," Beckett noted. "The T.O.D. has been narrowed down to forty-five minutes on either side of ten p.m."

"And you need to know where I was during that period of time, right?"

"Yes sir…"

Frank reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a credit card receipt. The I.A. investigator had not even asked to see it, despite his prompt. "This is time stamped, Detective Beckett. I think it might help…clarify…my whereabouts…"

Beckett studied the slip of paper for a moment, then handed it back. "Permission to speak bluntly, sir?"

"Please do."

"While you seem to have a solid alibi, can you say the same about the rest of your family?"

"I would never tell a detective how to run an investigation, especially one involving other police officers. You're one of the best detectives on the force, Beckett. You'll find who did this, I have no doubt. I know no one in my family did this. I can't alibi anyone but my granddaughter, but I **know** we didn't do it. This doesn't mean I'm telling you to stop investigating my family, you go where the clues take you. Where _**ever**_ they take you."

"Then I have to ask, do you know of anyone we should be looking at more closely? Anyone John Boyle had fought with recently, anyone who had a grudge?"

"John Boyle made a lot of enemies in his life. He was one of those people who confused self-satisfaction with success. If he was having a good time, that was all that mattered. To have a good time he needed money. To make money he took on several clients who were guilty of many things. Some of them he did not get off. Some he did, but he pis…angered in other ways. Again, I won't tell you how to run the investigation, but if I were you, I might take a look at who he defended in the last six months to a year. It would at least give you a broader suspect list."

"I'll have the court clerk pull up that list. Thank you, Commissioner."

"You're welcome, Detective."

Frank Reagan stood and escorted Beckett from his office. "What's next, Baker?"

Meanwhile, Garrett was in his own office, slowly having an apoplectic fit. The news of John's murder, along with his ties to the Commissioner's family, was headline news in all major outlets. At least the Mayor, under pressure of his own, had released a statement, supporting Frank and disavowing the involvement of any member of the Reagan family in this heinous crime. Garrett had to give the man credit…it was a real gamble to stick his neck out like that, especially if it turned out that…_no!_ Garrett pushed that thought away.

Later in the day, Frank took some personal time, then he and Erin took a cab back to Brooklyn. It had been a major undertaking to convince his detail not to drive them, but this was strictly a personal errand, and he would not let the city pay for that.

He and Erin, along with Father McMurray from their parish church, met with a funeral director and arranged John's funeral.

"I called John's Uncle Paul and Aunt Kay in Boca," Frank told Erin as they rode across the Brooklyn Bridge. "They'll fly up for the funeral, as soon as we have the details nailed down."

Erin nodded. "Thanks, Dad," she whispered. "I should have thought to do that."

"That's what Fathers do," he told her.


End file.
